


Nocturne

by Argyle



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-18
Updated: 2004-04-18
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: In fact, it was music that had first brought [Campbell] and Dorian Gray together -- music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished, and indeed exercised often without being conscious of it.





	Nocturne

_In fact, it was music that had first brought [Campbell] and Dorian Gray together -- music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished, and indeed exercised often without being conscious of it._ \-- The Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter XIV

Shifting softly against the red velvet cushion of his seat, Alan Campbell leaned his elbow to the armrest and set his cheek to his palm. The opera house was settling as the lights dimmed and lingering figures searched quietly for their places. The crimson curtains parted, revealing the set of artificially crumbling, ivy-laden columns, and the opening notes of the second act of _Don Giovanni_ resonated before the crowd. The roar of the music caught against Alan’s ears, descending within his chest. He watched as the scene unfurled, the costumes glimmering and the voices of the singers weaving together effortlessly.

Shaking himself, Alan blinked to the darkness that was pooled by his knees and focused dimly on the folded sheet of the playbill in his hands. Looking up, he let his eyes wander to the seated figures before him, settling at once on the form of a man a number of rows forward. The golden mass of his curls devoured fragile spokes of light and though the man’s face was caught in the thick veil of a shadow, Alan recognized the curve of his mouth and the enraptured glint in his eyes.

Alan glanced to the stage and back to the figure as the opera climaxed -- Don Giovanni, unwilling to repent for his sins, met his fate within the fires of the underworld. As the last notes sounded against the arched ceilings of the hall, the man turned toward Alan. Their eyes met for a moment and the other smiled as he steadily measured him, pausing and presently turning away to stand in applause.

As he stood, Alan’s heart lurched within his chest. He realized that they had just met in a parlor performance the previous evening. Frowning and creasing the playbill anxiously against his fingers, he searched through his thoughts for a name.

“Dorian Gray,” he whispered at length, his voice lost in the murmur of the audience.

Stepping out into the foyer and taking a flute of champagne from a passing server, Alan sighed. His gaze crossed through the crowd, lingering on groups of figures and smiling faces. The evening’s performance had been a great success, though everything but talk of music now passed over the lips of the remaining audience members. The image of Don Giovanni being dragged into the Inferno, red and black, flashed across his mind. He turned, feeling suddenly dizzy, and closed his eyes.

As he at last opened them, he was met with the sight of Dorian Gray, who stood across the room, languidly speaking to a group of young noblemen. They laughed as Dorian apparently provided them with some sliver of wit, his lips curling cruelly. Gradually, he turned his head toward Alan, widening his smile and arching a brow. Their eyes were again locked for a moment, though it was Alan who turned away with the beating of his heart, his cheeks flushing.

Alan walked to a far window that overlooked a backing arbor and watched the dim leaves as they fluttered in the cuff of the night. He raked a shaky hand through the dark mass of his hair and sipped from his glass, trying to regain his composure. As he looked through the corner of his vision again to Dorian, he was relieved to see that the other man had continued on with his own conversation.

Alan breathed in the gaudy sights and sounds of the opera house, here brocade paneling and filtered light, there the confident gleam of jeweled wrists and hushed, champagne-laced laughter. Delicately painted cherubs grazed the breadth of the ceiling upon white pigment wings, their gilded lips held in tight bows. He imagined their voices to be strung with sterling bells, traveling softly on the air, quiet against the din of the corridor and the dust of seasons passed. As he felt the ruddy glow of the foyer tug insistently against the tight folds of his collar, engulfing his senses, he longed for the cool sterility of his laboratory.

“Alan Campbell?”

Alan turned swiftly, moving his gaze from the icy eyes of the hovering figures to the man now standing before him. It was Dorian Gray. The dark hem of his evening suit cut lines of shadow across his snowy hands and the gentle curve of his neck. Blue eyes glittered from behind the ashen line of his lashes and his cheeks faintly hinted to an evening rose as their fair flush, warmed by the stirring forms of the hall and the champagne that he presently sipped at, caught against the dim light of the chandelier.

“Yes,” Alan began, faltering for the right words as his eyes were weighed upon by Dorian’s own. He held out his hand. “Mr. Gray. How pleasant it is to see you here. I enjoyed meeting you last evening.”

Dorian smiled, the corners of his lips turning slightly with the gleam of his eyes. “Of course.” He took Alan’s hand. His grip was firm yet oddly cold, as though he had been walking a great distance through the winter chill. Alan shivered despite himself and although Dorian seemed to notice this, his only response was to widen his smile. “I do apologize for leaving before we were able to fully acquaint ourselves -- I had urgent business to attend to.”

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize. Be assured, I was just leaving, myself.”

“Indeed?” Dorian tilted his head, his golden brow knitting for a moment. “I cannot blame you, though -- one can only tolerate so much of Lady Berkshire’s banter, however mindful it may be on any given occasion.”

Alan shook his head, swallowing softly to prevent his laughter from breaking past his lips. “You must admit that the music was brilliant,” he said at last.

“Oh yes, it certainly was. Rubinstein can scarcely be matched at the piano.”

Alan nodded, draining the last sip of his own champagne. “I attend every performance that I’m able to.”

“Ah.” Dorian bowed his head. He moved the flute in his hand with a gentle flick of his wrist, watching the champagne as it curled to the sides of the crystal and collected beams of light against its airy surface. After a silent moment, he met Alan’s eyes and began again, “Tell me Alan, what is your interest in music?”

“That is a good question. I suppose...” Alan paused, his brow furrowing in thought. “Well, I suppose it is the ability it gives for communication. To feel the notes through your soul, to have them vibrate through every fiber of your being. Even as it courses through your veins, it perhaps doesn’t pass judgment. The act of judgment is left to you. You have the final word in where it will take you on one evening or the next. It holds you, guides you, yes, and allows you to take your own steps toward your fate... and, somehow, you know that there will be hope. Yes, that is my interest in music.”

Dorian smiled, his lips parting slightly. Alan dropped his gaze to the dark, ornately flowering pattern of the floor, his cheeks flushing. Swallowing, he silently cursed himself for this admission through such an unchecked flow of emotion.

“Your account is most impressive, though I am uncertain as to whether hope is still in fashion,” Dorian said as he moved closer, his eyes seemingly earnest and wide. Alan imagined that he could feel Dorian’s gentle breath across his cheek, his lips. Dorian raised his hand, letting it waver for a moment on the air above Alan’s shoulder. He paused and, pulling it away, instead drank the last of his champagne in a swift gulp. He said at last, “Tell me... do you play, yourself?”

Alan cleared his throat. “I do, yes.”

“What?”

“Oh...” Alan hesitated. “Violin, for the most part... and piano.”

“Ah! Alan, that is marvelous,” Dorian replied with a smooth chuckle. “You must come back with me now -- I insist on seeing some of your interest in music put to good use.”

“I couldn’t possibly--”

“Oh, but I insist!” Dorian interrupted, his lips passing into a grin. With a quick movement, he reached down, taking Alan’s hand in his own. He held it for a moment, squeezing gently and running the calloused tips of Alan’s fingers across his palm.

Alan frowned, his gaze hovering on Dorian’s hand. “I haven’t brought my violin.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Dorian laughed, letting Alan’s hand drop back to his side. Seeming to catch the hesitation that still lingered behind Alan’s eyes, he began again, “You mustn’t protest. I have one at my home -- in Grosvenor Square.” Dorian moved forward swiftly, shifting his form before Alan’s; he took the empty flute from Alan and set it, along with his own, to a nearby ledge. Now he did set his hand across Alan’s shoulder as he moved his face close to Alan’s ear. “Please?”

This lone syllable sent a shiver circuiting down Alan’s spine. He nodded finally, meeting Dorian’s eyes and feeling the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end. “I would be honored.”

“Delightful!” Dorian cried, stepping back.

They walked side by side, though Alan felt that it was Dorian who directed him into the cloakroom and out of the opera house’s entrance. They stood for a moment on the curb as Dorian’s hansom cab was summoned. Alan shivered against the chill of the November night, clenching his hands in leather gloves.

“You needn’t worry,” Dorian said with a chuckle, adjusting his hat. “It’s not far.” His breath appeared as white serpents from his mouth, writhing and dispersing with the breeze.

Alan nodded, burrowing his shoulders into the dark wool of his cloak. He let his eyes graze across Dorian’s form, noting the pallor of his smooth cheeks and the gold that sprang forth from his eyes as a reflection of the streetlamps.

The cab approached and the driver swiftly hopped from his perch, opening the door and setting the stair. Dorian stepped inside, shifting against the leather of the bench, and motioned with a wave of his wrist for Alan to follow. Alan hesitated for a moment longer, glancing back to the flickering light of the opera house and down the shadowed, snow-laced street. With a deep breath, he stepped into the cab, setting himself down next to Dorian. Dorian nodded, his eyes darting from Alan to the driver, and the door was closed.

As they began to move, Dorian inhaled deeply, shifting against the wall of the cab and reaching into his pocket for his golden cigarette case. He set one between the crimson bow of his lips, lighting it with a flick of his wrist and holding the case toward Alan.

Alan took one, smiling as Dorian moved against his shoulder to light it. After a quiet moment he asked, “So, Mr. Gray--”

“No, no -- you must call me Dorian.”

“Ah, of course. Dorian.” Alan swallowed. “Did you enjoy the opera this evening?”

“You mean _Don Giovanni_?” Dorian drew on his cigarette, his gaze settling on the passing buildings.

“Well, yes.”

“Indeed. The Don is a man after my own heart.” He grinned, meeting Alan’s eyes and exhaling with a stream of smoke. “That is to say, I greatly admire his spirit.”

Alan laughed quietly. “Had you seen it before?”

“My dear, I have seen it a hundred times,” Dorian drawled, his voice suddenly seeming to have traveled over a great distance. His gaze traced again through the darkness of the window. The cold tendrils of midnight’s mist hung against the bows of trees just as the blue smoke of Dorian’s cigarette twined through the golden halo of his curls, settling through the strands seamlessly.

They then rode in silence, Alan’s gaze occasionally sweeping from the window to Dorian, who always seemed to be waiting to catch it with his own. Alan opened his mouth to speak, though he paused as the cab lurched to a stop and the door once again stood open to the night’s chill air. Dorian moved before him, smoothly stepping out to the curb. He smiled, holding his hand out to Alan and tossing his cigarette into the damp cobble of the street. Alan hesitated for a moment, then took Dorian’s hand and stood beside him firmly.

Dorian walked up the stone staircase and knocked on the door, his knuckles white. As a servant swiftly opened the door, Dorian moved toward Alan and led him through the dim light of the entryway into the parlor, which was warm with its bustling fire. Alan shrugged his cloak from his shoulders, gently setting it onto the servant’s arms.

“Thank you, Francis.” Dorian turned to Alan, tugging at the red silk that was tied about his neck and unbuttoning his collar. “Would you like a drink? I always like to take hock-and-seltzer.”

“Fine, that sounds fine,” Alan said, nodding.

“Please, have a seat.”

Alan’s eyes grazed over the lavishly furnished room, a silk settee here, an immobile chest of drawers there, and lingered on the darkly sprawling form of the piano. Setting himself onto a wingchair, he took the small glass from Dorian’s outstretched hand. He sipped at it, crossing his legs and watching Dorian tug at the cuffs of his dark jacket.

“Ah! You must play for me now, Alan.”

“I don’t mean to mislead you -- I would hardly ever consider myself to be more than a novice.”

“Nonsense, I’m certain that you play exquisitely.” Dorian set his drink onto the table with a swift movement. “I’ll not be long.”

Alan nodded and watched Dorian close the door behind him with a quiet click. He gazed into the fire as it brimmed beside him, catching pine-tar in sharp bursts of light, and took a gulp from his glass. The room was silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the dancing utterance of the flames.

Standing and setting the glass to the mantle, Alan felt the heat of the hearth against his cheeks and pulled his jacket off, gingerly laying it across the arm of the chair. He dashed a hand across his brow and ran the tips of his fingers before the mantle’s glossy wooden rim. Next to the clock sat a small hand-mirror, its glass laced by delicately carved ivory cherubs. Lifting it, he gazed down at their fluid hands and wings, his own face reflecting palely within. As he had in the opera house, he imagined a distant song, though now it collected within the laughter of the fire and held little remorse for the pale sheen of his eyes and the drawn arch of his mouth. He parted his lips as though to reply but the sound of the brass doorknob shook him and he set the mirror back to the mantle roughly.

“Did you see anything that you like?” Dorian asked as he strode into the room, arching a brow and nodding toward Alan’s hand upon the mantle. “Marvelous little mirror, I should say. It was a gift.” He grinned. “It will tell your fortunes.”

“Oh?”

“Most definitely.” Dorian nodded, his forehead furrowing in amusement for a moment. “It is its greatest weakness... and its greatest charm.”

“What is the saying about fortune’s smile?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know.” Dorian grinned, his lips parting sweetly.

Presently, Dorian held aloft a slick black violin case and motioned for Alan’s attention. As Alan stepped beside him, Dorian waved his long fingers against the sterling clasp and swung the case open gently.

Alan inhaled quietly as he saw the fine form of the violin, glancing to Dorian with a certain amount of wonderment. It gleamed against the broken firelight and a surrounding veil of thick velvet, its rich, red body offset by its dark curves and the gilded sheen of its bridge. Alan ran his fingers over it slowly, savoring the waxen grain of the wood and its minute signs of use.

“Go on.” Dorian smiled, passing the bow into Alan’s hands.

Alan lifted the violin, feeling its subtle weight, and held it to the crease of his neck. Gently, he touched it with the bow, bringing it across and forward, the sharp notes sounding warmly through the parlor.

“Are you fond of Chopin?” Dorian asked softly as he sat down to the piano bench.

“Oh yes.” Alan paused in his playing and moved before the piano. “Very much.”

“I had hoped so, Alan.” Dorian grazed his long hands across the gleaming ivory, sparking the barest hint of song. “Let me see.” He pursed his lips, tilting his head toward Alan. “Ah. Allow me to begin here.” He eagerly struck a succession of keys and the beginnings of a nocturne washed through the parlor.

Recognizing the tune, Alan brought his bow to the violin and his fingers swayed across the fingerboard skillfully. The two strains of music twined together, arching and flowing through the room seamlessly, and a curtain of sound, a tapestry of woven dreams, closed around them.

A smile perpetually dancing across his lips, Dorian stretched the music to new heights, his taper-fingers slowly stroking the keys. He glanced to Alan, catching his eye as though daring him to follow his advances... and Alan did, effortlessly, irrevocably.

Alan scarcely noticed the absence of Dorian’s playing as the sole sound of his violin filled the parlor. His form shook lightly as he continued on, the pressure of the strings stinging the tips of his fingers. The pace of his melody varied though the passage of time, though it held an underlying fiber of the original nocturne.

Dorian suddenly stood before him, his figure still and his eyes wide with wavering astonishment. Alan focused on him, pausing in his music, at once seeing the light sheen of tears that crossed Dorian’s crystalline gaze. As Dorian stepped forward and gently pulled the violin from his hands, Alan’s breath was heavy, almost labored. He knew that Dorian had set the violin aside to the desk just as he knew the immediate pressure of Dorian’s form against his own, though he only saw Dorian’s eyes: ardent and airy, advancing until his vision held nothing else and Dorian’s lips were softly pressed against his own.

His kiss was graceful, melodic, somehow hung with sterling bells and laced by the quiet notes that yet lingered within Alan’s ears. Alan felt Dorian’s hand as it passed across his cheek, smooth over the line of his jaw, finally fisting against the dark curls at the nape of his neck. Raising his own grasp to Dorian’s waist and the taught crease of his jacket, Alan pulled him closer, at once tasting the sweet intermingling of champagne and tobacco upon Dorian’s tongue as it swept across his own.

“Ah, Alan,” Dorian breathed against his ear as they at last broke apart. “I knew that you would play exquisitely.”

Alan closed his eyes, sighing brokenly into the golden mass of Dorian’s hair. His heart beat mightily as he set his hand to the pearl buttons that were aligned across Dorian’s chest, his fingers lightly playing over them.

With a quiet smile, Dorian set the soft curve of his mouth to Alan’s cheek. His fingers fluttered in nimble strokes as he pulled away the burgundy silk that was tied about Alan’s neck, letting it slide idly to the floor. Dorian separated the intricate clasps of Alan’s collar, his hands dancing lower as his lips crossed to the hollow of Alan’s throat, the warmth of his breath seeming to trace patterns of wanting across Alan’s skin. Alan buried his face against Dorian’s shoulder, a shudder passing through his frame.

The rhythm of Dorian’s kisses, deepened with movement of his tongue as he worked his way across Alan’s clavicle, raising his hands to part the warm cloth of Alan’s shirt, seemed to match the sounding of Alan’s pulse as it burned within his veins. His breath catching heavily at the back of his throat, Alan set his hand beneath Dorian’s chin, slowly raising it and meeting Dorian’s mouth with his own.

Perhaps Dorian laughed as he shook his head, pulling away from Alan’s grasp. His brow furrowed for a moment, the weight of his gaze tracing over Alan’s form. At last he extended his hand, his lips parting slightly as the light of fire flashed in reflection before his eyes, bright and inviting.

“Alan,” Dorian whispered. His voice was laced by a heavier timbre, nearly engulfed by the hushed rustling of the parlor. “Won’t you come up with me?”

Feeling at once lost within Dorian’s presence, Alan swallowed and frowned for an instant, his sight remaining on Dorian’s hand as he finally took it. With a swift smile, Dorian pulled Alan gently toward him, guiding him before the door and opening it with a languid movement of his wrist. They walked through the whorled gloom of the corridor, silently climbing the stairs, and Dorian softly pressed Alan’s hand as they then stood within the dim expanse of Dorian’s chambers.

Dorian raised Alan’s palm to his lips, kissing it lightly before letting it drop once more to Alan’s side. He moved with evident calculation as he shed the black mass of his jacket. Alan watched as Dorian’s hands swayed over the line of his buttons, at last allowing his shirt to slide from his wrists to the floor, a gleaming pool that was soon marred by his boots as they were tossed aside. Dorian’s eyes were imploring, his hands hovering at the waist of his trousers; he smoothly unfastened them, discarding into shadows. Dorian’s lips curled as he stood naked before Alan, pale skin luminous in the flickering candlelight.

Casting spiraled shadows across the walls, Dorian pressed his hands to Alan’s chest once more, loosening the tiny buttons of Alan’s shirt and tugging it from his shoulders with a deft stroke. A low moan passed across Alan’s lips as he felt Dorian’s arms twined about his shoulders, pressing their forms together.

Dorian laughed quietly, his lips moving in answer against Alan’s chest, his warm mouth surveying skin as he ran the tips of his fingers across Alan’s spine. Alan started as Dorian pulled against the firm arc of his groin, though Dorian caught his face, drawing him forward once more and their lips met. Swallowing shakily and closing his eyes, Alan imagined echoes of stars against the dark crease of his lashes. His boots were tugged off, trousers skillfully unfastened, and he suddenly stared into the engulfing hue of Dorian’s gaze as his form was lowered across the bed’s tousled silk.

His pace languid, Dorian stepped away, retrieving a small, crystalline vial from atop a dusky chest of drawers. Alan shivered, feeling the silk shift across his bare skin and the hint of a draft brought by Dorian’s movements. Slow lips traced across his chest, stomach, hovering over his hip with heavy, quivering breath.

With a wave of his taper fingers, Dorian removed the vial’s stopper. He poured oil into his palm, leaning forward and pressing cool lips to Alan’s thigh.

The heady scent of lavender curling against his tongue, Alan’s breath caught within his throat as he felt the pressure of Dorian’s touch, gently, steadily entering him and spreading the oil. Alan clenched his jaw, closing his eyes as Dorian drew his finger out, at once pouring more oil and easing back inside. Again, a hoarse whimper escaped from Alan’s lips; again, Dorian answered with a stifled laugh that circuited through Alan’s groin.

Alan strained to keep his eyes open as Dorian loomed above him, honeyed hair brushing across his chest, and he spread his legs, bracing his calf against Dorian’s back. Pressing his lips to Alan’s throat, Dorian moved against him, guiding himself into Alan. Dorian’s hand moved to Alan’s hip as he steadied himself, pushing forward, alternating in his grasp of the bedcovers and the firm skin of Alan’s chest.

Hands clinging to the sharp form of Dorian’s shoulder blades, Alan imagined himself to be flying as his hips rocked with each of Dorian’s thrusts. Spectral wings formed from the silken sheets, azure and airy with their motion. Dorian seemed to hold him upon the breadth of the wind, high into the night as his moans collected, rare notes through the air.

Alan knew only Dorian, golden and brilliant above him, moving deeper with each rhythmic breath. Just as he had thought of them before, stars formed against the crease of Alan’s lashes, collecting beads of sweat or tears with the glint of far candles, dispersing as Dorian’s mouth crossed over his face.

Although his lips moved to form Dorian’s name, his tongue was slack within his mouth, curtained by the heave of his breath. His back arching as he climaxed, Alan released, the slightness of his frame cradled by Dorian’s warm grasp. Alan’s eyes were aflame as he reached forward, lightly catching Dorian’s cheek, pulling him down and merging their sighs. Alan’s senses were overcome by Dorian as he hung above, in turn stiffening and emptying with the fervor of a recent memory.

“Dear, Alan,” Dorian breathed against his cheek, his voice muffled by flesh and the pounding of their hearts. His hair was a halo of disheveled curls, gleaming with the whispered promise of morning’s final star. He smiled, lips parting as he pulled himself away, indulgently curling over Alan’s chest.

 

Their shared heat gradually dissipating, Alan rested by Dorian’s side, arms still vaguely entwined as the candles burned themselves out and the night passed on. The silk sheets clung to their spent forms, cool with breath.

Alan stirred as Dorian shifted against him, pulling away from his hold and moving in catlike steps from the bed. Through half-lidded eyes, he watched as Dorian reached into the shadows, grasping a robe and hanging it around his shoulders. With the muffled sound of a match, Dorian lit a cigarette, his face illuminated by the burning ember of its tip as he drew heavily upon it. His eyes were bright as he glanced toward Alan and hunched his shoulders against the smooth folds of his robe, opening the door, a smile playing across his features. The latch clanked hollowly as he disappeared into the darkness of the hall, boards creaking lightly with his footfall.

As the sound faded, Alan drew the sheets closely over his chest, shakily raking a hand through the mass of his hair. His eyes traced against the darkness, lingering on scattered patches of shadow and finally settling on a streak of moonlight that appeared before the gloom of the floor. He at once knew the vow of morning that hung just beyond its touch, resounding with Dorian’s return.


End file.
